Spiral

by Mila Ferrera

  I have to face him in a few hours. We’re meeting to talk about the case he’s referred to me, because we have to present it in rounds and Aron wants to make sure it goes well. I do, too. I want him to find his feet again.

  I stare at the brown-green water of the pond, the smooth surface rippled by cool gusts of wind before turning glassy again, and then I take out the letter. It’s a formal offer from the Brown University School of Medicine. They have a great post-doc program there. And although I accepted the post-doc here at CHOP, I’m reconsidering the wisdom of that decision. I made it rashly, when I was naïve enough to think everything was going to go back to the way it was in the fall.

  I fold the letter and put it back in my bag, then return to staring at the pond. Brown isn’t a great fit. Not like CHOP is. But I don’t think I can stay. It was bad enough when Aron was gone. I spent every day in the fortress of my work and my busyness, retreating to my old ways even though I’d had a taste of how different things could be. Now that he’s back, though, a beautiful visual reminder of that life I had, the happiness in spite of the busyness, now that I have to see him every day and know he doesn’t want to share that with me … I can’t.

  I open the box of chess pieces at my table and absently put them into position. “One last game,” I whisper.

  “Are you expecting someone?” Aron asks, making me jump. I turn to see him standing behind me, having followed the path that leads up from the street.

  “No,” I say, hastily sweeping the pieces off the board and into their box.

  He’s holding a cardboard cup with a plastic lid, and there’s a telltale tag hanging from the top. His favorite green tea. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  I can’t stop the bitter laugh as it bursts from my mouth. “Obviously.” I get up quickly, smoothing my skirt and hiking my bag onto my shoulder.

  Aron stops me with a hand on my arm. “It’s not a bad surprise.”

  I gaze up at him, startled by his touch and the soft warmth in his words. He meets my eyes but looks away quickly. “I’m glad,” I say. “But I know you come here to be alone, so I’ll let you—”

  “Can we talk?” he asks.

  “Sure. I don’t have my notes on the case with me, though.”

  He shakes his head. “Not about that.”

  “Oh.” I fiddle with the strap of my bag. I am so raw, everything so close to the surface. “About what, then?”

  He sets his cup on the table and folds himself onto the bench. “Sit with me?” When I do, he says, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened Saturday. What I said to you.”

  I swipe at the condensation on my cup. “Me, too. I’m glad you were honest.” Even though it broke my heart all over again.

  He sighs. “I was honest, but I didn’t … I didn’t say everything. And I need to.”

  I close my eyes and bow my head, working hard not to lose it. “I think you said enough, Aron. It’s really all right.” I flatten my palms on the table to push myself back up. This is freaking torture.

  He presses his palm over my hand. “Don’t. Please.” The strain in his voice is enough to hold me in place, and I open my eyes as I feel his fingers coil around mine. “I loved you before, when I knew who I was,” he begins. “When I was absolutely sure where I was going and what I could do. When I knew what I could offer you and knew it was good. When I trusted myself. But all of that is gone.” He swallows. “Now I have to figure it out again. I feel like a colt on wobbly legs, like I might fall at any moment.” He meets my eyes briefly. “And if I were to drag you down, that would end me, Nessa. I already feel so badly about what happened that I can barely look at you.”

  We sit in silence for a few moments, staring at our joined hands. “But at the same time,” he finally says, “I want to look at you.”

  I don’t move, don’t breathe, afraid this moment will evaporate and leave me with nothing.

  “I missed you so much,” he whispers, and I look up to see his eyes shining with tears that don’t come. “I missed talking to you, and playing with you, and touching you, and seeing you smile. I missed just … sitting next to you. I’ve never missed anyone or anything that much.”

  “I get that.” I put my other hand on his, stroking his knuckles. “I already told you how I feel.”

  His grip on my fingers tightens. “But I don’t understand how you could feel that way.”

  “You’re the same person, Aron.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’ve changed. I won’t argue with you about that. But you’re still yourself. You’re the person who taught me to live while I was living. You’re beautiful and brilliant and—” I tear my gaze from his. Why am I saying this? I’ve made my decision. “You’re worth knowing, Aron.” I pull my hands from his and fold my arms over my middle. “And I will always be glad I did.”

  He tenses. “Why are you talking to me like this is goodbye?”

  “Because it is. I’m going to take a post-doc at Brown.”

  His face pales. “Because of me?”

  “Don’t make me answer that, okay?” I try to make it sound light, but it comes out hoarse. I start to stand up, and he grabs my arm again.

  He’s looking hard in my eyes now, no more avoidance. “Take the position at Brown if it’s best for you, Nessa. I want you to be happy. But … I want you to understand … I don’t want you to leave.”

  “But do you want me to stay?” I ask, my heart skipping.

  “Only if that’s what’s best for your career. Only if—” He curses under his breath. “You have no idea how selfish I feel right now.” His jaw is clenched, making his scar white. The look in his eyes is melting me down. “Yes, I want you to stay.”

  “Why is that selfish?”

  He looks down at his hand on my arm, watches his fingers curl around my bicep. “Because I’m not sure I’m good for you, or good enough for you. The medication seems to be working, but that’s not a guarantee of forever. My psychiatrist has helpfully informed me that the relapse rate is incredibly high. I want to make you promises that I’ll stay stable, that I’ll be okay, that I’ll be what you need, but I can’t do that.” He lets me go.

  “Do you want to be with me?”

  Slowly, like he’s touching me for the first time, he takes my face in his hands. And like it always has, the feel of his skin on mine paralyzes me. His thumbs stroke my cheeks while his gaze lingers on my mouth. “‘Want’ is not a strong enough word.”

  When our lips collide, I am lost. The taste of him, the scent, the feel of his skin against mine, all of it overwhelms me. Hope blooms inside of me, though I know it could be dashed at any moment. Am I weak to be thinking of staying in Philly … or was I weak to consider accepting the post-doc in Providence just to avoid putting my heart on the line again?

  Aron pulls back, leaving me breathless. “This isn’t fair to you. It doesn’t change what’s going on with me.”

  “There are never guarantees in life,” I say, skimming the backs of my fingers along his jaw, amazed to be touching him again. “And there are always risks to any relationship.”

  “But you have to admit, I should come with my very own warning label.” His hands fall into his lap.

  I know better than most what that warning label might read. “My father had bipolar disorder, Aron. He was never medicated.”

  Aron turns to me, shock etched on his face. “You told me he killed himself …”

  “We think he was manic at the time, so he might have believed he was invincible. We’ll never know if it was intentional or not.”

  “You didn’t mention that part.”

  “You and I were taking it slow. I thought I had time.”

  He bows his head. “You know, then. You know what this could be like. How bad it could be.”

  “I know I’m not willing to lose another person in my life to this disorder. I hate it as much as I hate cancer. Maybe as much as you hate cancer.” I consider my next words carefully, because I w
ant to make sure I mean them. “If you want me with you, Aron, I’m not about to walk away because of it.”

  His gaze drifts to the pond. “I can’t believe I even asked you for this. I’m afraid you’ll regret staying.”

  “Look at me.” I wait until he does. “I know I’ll regret it if I leave.” As I say it, I know my decision is made, and it feels … good. Scary but good. “So I have a suggestion.” He raises his eyebrows, and I lean forward, kissing the tip of his nose. “Let’s take this slow.” I place a feather-soft kiss on his cheek. His eyes fall shut. “Let’s get to know each other as we are now. And let’s see where it goes.”

  His fingers curl over my knee, and his breath huffs against my throat. “Nessa …”

  I inch forward and kiss his mouth, a barely there brush of our lips. “I’m not asking you to marry me,” I joke. “We could start with a few games of chess. And maybe dinner.”

  His forehead touches mine. “I’m scared I’m going to disappoint you,” he whispers.

  “I’m scared of a lot of things. That’s no reason not to try.”

  He opens his eyes but doesn’t move away. “Then I’ll try.”

  I sit next to Aron in rounds and together we present on Kai Uchenna, the six-year-old with violent tantrums. The room is crowded with residents, attendings, and other medical staff, but Nick isn’t here. Probably because he’s sporting double black eyes from his encounter with Aron on Saturday. He won’t press charges, though. I don’t tell Aron, but I called Nick on Sunday morning and assured him that, if he took action against Aron, I would show our supervisors the pictures of the bruises Nick left on my arm, and I would report how he spoke to me, how he physically intimidated me, how he harassed me, and I would personally make sure his chances of getting any post-doc were shot to hell. Fortunately, no one else gives Aron a hard time about Saturday, either. I think people were glad someone finally punched Nick in the face.

  With my urging, Aron invites Mark out to lunch. Like with me, Aron was so ashamed of his behavior that he’d been avoiding his best friend. But I know that Aron needs people around him who understand him if he’s going to be okay, if he’s going to find his feet again. When Aron texts me afterward with a simple Thank you, I hug my phone.

  Aron and I take things very, very slow over the next weeks, but it’s different from before. More careful, more caring, more intimate. We work out together most mornings. Even if I don’t want to lug myself out of bed to run and lift weights, I always want to see him, so it’s great motivation. We find a way to take breaks during the day and sneak to the pond, and we play chess both there and on our phones. I’m getting better, but he still kicks my ass every single time. We spend fewer nights going out to restaurants and more evenings curled up on his couch, watching movies and eating popcorn. I brew him green tea and pester him to refill his water bottle. He brings me coffee and makes fun of my impractical shoes … but offers to carry me piggyback as he walks me back to my apartment in the evenings. And there is nothing better than naps with Aron, when I can watch his face while he sleeps, when I can feel the stillness of his body and know he’s relaxed and resting, when I am alone with my thoughts and completely with him at the same time.

  It’s a peaceful, tentative, quiet way of growing together again, and I’m grateful for every minute of it. I don’t take any of it for granted, and I don’t think he does, either. He’s more reserved than he was, but it might be because he’s uncertain, because he doesn’t trust himself yet. I catch him watching me sometimes, though, this heated stare that I feel like a fingertip sliding along my skin. But as soon as he realizes I’m aware of it, he looks away. I tell myself the only cure for that is time.

  I meet with Kai Uchenna’s mother nearly every day, and with his father, too, though his work schedule means he’s not at the hospital as often. Which is a good thing, because he and his ex-wife seem to genuinely hate each other. But they love their son, and they’re devastated by his illness, a lymphoma that must be treated, in part, with intrathecal chemotherapy. Basically, Aron has to administer the meds directly into Kai’s spinal fluid using a lumbar puncture procedure. Last time, Kai had a massive tantrum right before the procedure, and his parents ended up screaming at each other in the hallway. It was all Aron could do to keep them from getting in a fistfight, when what he needed to do was treat this kid’s cancer.

  At the beginning of May, Phaedra calls me into her office and tells me that she was scheduled to present at psychosocial rounds that week, but her uncle has died and she has to go to D.C. for the funeral. She asks me if Aron and I would be willing to present instead, maybe on collaboration between physicians and psychologists on difficult cases like Kai’s. Nervously, I ask Aron about it, but he accepts without hesitation. In fact, he seems kind of excited about it. We spend the next few evenings at his apartment, putting together our slides and arguing over what to include and who’ll present what. I get anxious in front of audiences, but Aron pushes me to take the lead.

  “Physicians want to see what you’re offering, so they should hear it from you,” he says the night before the presentation, sitting back and putting his feet up on his coffee table after saving the final version of our slides. When my eyebrow arches, he smiles. “We’re very practical creatures. If you’re useful, we’ll want you on every case. If you’re a waste of time, we won’t bother referring at all. It’s a hard enough job as is.”

  I tuck my legs beneath me and poke him in the ribs. “Can’t you just tell them how awesome I am?”

  He pushes my hair back, and I thrill at his touch. “I could, and I would mean every word,” he says as his gaze lingers on my face, “but at this point, everyone knows I’m horribly biased.”

  His fingers curl into my hair and he kisses me in a way that reminds me of the fall, his tongue sliding along mine and drawing me tight with desire. When we finally pull back, my heart is pounding and my hands are trembling. “I’d better get going,” I murmur. It’s nearly one and I have to be at the hospital early.

  “I’ll walk you home,” he says.

  We kiss goodbye at my door, and again, there’s a heat there that makes me want to drag him into my apartment and strip him naked. He walks away with a mischievous grin that I haven’t seen in a long time, practically bouncing on his heels.

  I head into my apartment, my body aching with need, my thoughts spinning with happiness. My dreams that night are of him, and how we might come together again, how I would run my hands over his body, how I’d drive him wild. I wake up desperate to see him.

  When I get to the conference room for our presentation, Aron’s already there. He’s got the computer hooked to the projector and is ready to roll. “You look beautiful,” he says to me, striding forward as I set my bag on one of the chairs.

  “So do you,” I reply.

  He laces his fingers with mine and chuckles. “Your hands are shaking more than mine are.”

  “I don’t love public speaking,” I mumble. “I told you that.”

  He moves in close and spreads my trembling fingers on his chest. “I’ll sit in front, and when it’s your turn to present, you can imagine me naked. Don’t people say that kind of thing helps?”

  I giggle. “The only thing that would do is make me wish I was alone with you. I’d rush the presentation and refuse to take questions.”

  He slides my hand down to his stomach. “That is sounding like an increasingly good idea.”

  We step away from each other quickly as people start to file in. Nick enters with a bitter twist to his mouth. His black eyes have faded to barely-there shadows, but he looks at Aron like he’s dying to catch him off guard, and it makes my stomach churn. I catch his eye and touch my arm, the place where he left the imprints of his fingers that night at the party, and Nick clenches his jaw and stares out the window.

  The presentation goes well. I make it through my parts without embarrassing myself, and Aron is a livewire, presenting with charm and humor, answering questions in ways that spark a l
ively discussion. Nick tries to argue some stupid point with me about one of the articles I cited, and I begin to explain myself, but Aron intervenes and steamrolls him so fast it’s ridiculous, leaving Nick red-faced and stammering.

  Afterward, I squeeze Aron’s hand and tell him I’ll talk to him later, then head out to see my afternoon consult patients.

  I’m not halfway down the hall when an arm snakes around my waist and sweeps me into an empty hospital room. Aron closes the door behind him and tugs me into his arms again. “Come here,” he says, pushing the strap of my bag off my shoulder. “I haven’t congratulated you properly.” He lowers his head and nuzzles my neck, then makes me gasp as he nips at the sensitive skin of my throat.

  At the sound, his grip on me tightens. “I’ve missed you,” he whispers, his hand sliding over my shirt to cup my breast.

  I weave my fingers into his hair, desire and unease at war within me. As Aron’s mouth crashes down on mine, thoughts start to prick at me, like how high his energy level is. And how fast he was talking during the presentation. “Aron?”

  “Hmm?” He lifts me onto the counter and pushes my knees apart so he can stand between my legs.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t …”

  His hands caress my thighs and send bolts of need straight to my core, scattering my thoughts. I grab his waist and wrap my legs around his narrow hips. When I feel the rigid, insistent jut of him against me, I nearly moan. It’s been so long. And it feels so good. Especially when his fingers slip between us to stroke me through my clothes. “I wish you’d worn a skirt today,” he murmurs against my throat.

  “Me, too,” I say, reaching down to explore him. But as soon as I do, he abruptly pulls me off the counter and turns me around so the heat of his hard body is at my back. Before I can gather the brain cells to protest, he unbuttons my pants and skims his hand down my belly. Two of his long fingers slide into me a second later, drawing a choked whimper from my throat. I’m so slick that my body offers no resistance at all, and he pumps his fingers quickly, turning me into a panting mess while he presses his hips against my rear. He puts his other hand over my mouth, stifling my cries, letting me moan against his palm as his finger circles my clit. It makes my vision dark and dims my thoughts, leaving me dizzy and breathless.